Intelligence
by RubyManhatten
Summary: Sequel to Valiance. John is left fighting for his life whilst Sherlock tries to maintain his cool facade. How long before he snaps? Please READ and REVIEW!
1. Chapter 1

Intelligence

Author's Note: Since 'Valliance' had such a large number of people reading it within such a short amount of time, and I've had a few requests, I've decided to do a follow up and this is it! I initially started with all intentions to only keep it as a one shot again, but it seems to want to be more, so this is the first installment. I have no idea at all how long it'll be, so bare with me. I will try to update once every two days, but don't hold me to that! Anyway, Enjoy!

Love, Ruby xx

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Sherlock, or anything attributed to it... Unfortunately...

Mycroft was tended to, so I rolled John onto his back. The colour ran from my face as I saw blood pouring from John's stomach. That bullet had hit him. His face was crumpled up in pain as I instantly applied pressure to the wound. "Stay with me John! Stay with me!" I said softly to him. "Paramedic!" I screamed next, and a whole hoard of people flocked around us as I watched the life pour from John's body.

I was pushed out of the way by the overzealous doctors, and a stray tear may have fallen.

•

彡Intelligence - a. The capacity to acquire and apply knowledge. b. The faculty of thought and reason. c. Superior powers of mind.

Twelve hours I've been sat here in this waiting room in a horribly umcomfortable chair feeling quite distraught. John's still in surgery, Mycroft's leg was only bruised, thank God (if there is one). I really don't know what I'd have done itlf he was seriously injured like John.

John has to make it. I need John. I never told him that he actually helps me, how much I would have missed at crime scenes if it wasn't for him. I'm not normally emotional, but then again, it's not every day that someone has a friend like John, and then that friend risks his life for you and your brother and is subsequently in surgery for an inhumane amount of time.

Mycroft has visited me a few times, more to thank me and convey how he feels about the whole situation. I'm glad my brother feels he can use me as an outlet, but it's not what I need right now. What I need right now is to know that John is alive and going to survive.

I've now been here in this same seat, being told the same thing, "I really couldn't say, Mr Holmes. His wound wasn't particularly good.", by the nurses for thirteen hours. I don't like repeating things, and I certainly don't need the same phrase said to me again and again either. If I'm asking again, surely it means I haven't got the answer I'm looking for and want a different one. They clearly don't understand this at the hospital.

As soon as John's out, we're going to the manor. I don't care what they say. Mycroft wants him there anyway, and they're not going to want to mess with an angry Mycroft. Things don't turn out pretty. There's all the equipment at the manor and better doctors, so I shouldn't see their problem.

I haven't cried for about four hours, which is a positive sign, however I am aware that my eyes are still red and a little puffy as I keep getting sympathetic glances from the other people who pass through the room. I feel that these are rather unwarranted and unwanted.

I thought I had trouble understanding people, can they nit just tell me if he's still alive. That's the fiftieth time I've asked and the fiftieth time I've been given the same damned response. This refrain is getting more than a little tedious. In fact, it became tedious the second time I asked and got the same response.

I'm now thouroughly bored and anxious about John. I've never known boredom and anxiety to be a good combination, and they still aren't. I have considered pacing the waiting room, but I feel I that may put me in an even less sociable state than I am in now. I need to remain fairly socially acceptable so that they will let me see John faster when he is eventually release from surgery.

I'm not a doctor, but I do know that thirteen and a half hours in surgery really is extortionate, and not a good sign. But I can't let my brain continue down that thought path, I need John. He has to survive.

Fourteen hours later and I ask the same question about John's progress again, and this time, I get the answer I'm looking for. "He's just come out of surgery, quite a difficult one too. He's down the hall, third door on the left." replied a rather short nurse. I don't really know I she was that short, but most people appear short when you're my height. Anyway, John wouldn't be here much longer.

"Thank you." I said in the most palatable way possible without seeming overly relieved that I hadn't got the same answer repeated to me again. I don't really know which I'm more pleased about, getting a different answer, or John being out of surgery and alive. No, it's definately the latter. I'd have sat through more hours of that same refrain if it meant John was ok.

I found the room where John was and slowly opened the door to the sound of steady beeping from the heart monitor. The room was whitewash and rather drab, but John was in it, so that made it better.

I took the seat next to the head of the bed and reveled in the quiet which was absent from the waiting room.

I looked down at John. He looked paler than before due to the large amount of blood he lost. At this point I realise that some of it was still dried on my hands from where I had tried to stop the bleeding. I walked over to the small sink in the corner of the room and began to wash the dry maroon coloured substance from my hands and wrists. The water was too hot and it scolded me a little, but I didn't care. What's a small burn in comparison to a second bullet wound?

A second bullet wound... That was ringing through my head as I came up with all of the consequences: trauma, his limp returning, him leaving... I don't think I'd cope with the latter.

•

It's been three hours since John came out of surgery and I've been told to go home a total of eight times now; at least they didn't repeat the same phrase over and over again, this made the request slightly easier to tolerate.

Where was Mycroft? He should be here by now to collect John and I.

Speak of the devil. That's definately Mycroft causing that raucous noise. Ahh, the nurse is trying to pursued him to let John stay here; a futile attempt. Only I can argue with my brother and win.

"Come on Sherlock, let's go." He said as he blocked the doorway. Idiot.

"I'd love to, only you might just be blocking my only exit." I said as monotonously as possible. He rolled his eyes and let me pass; his men walked into the room and placed John on another bed and wired him up to some portable, temporary equipment for transport.

As expected, the rather large black car was waiting for us just outside the door, a separate van had been bought along for John, it was just big enough for the bed and one other doctor; I understood that I couldn't travel with him, much to my disappointment.

I sat in the back of the car, facing my brother. We said nothing, just gazed out of the windows for the majority of the journey. I quickly got bored of this so decided to tackle the subject that was causing such an irritating awkwardness between us. How was I meant to think with an atmosphere? That was why I liked John for company. there were always silences between us, but they were never awkward.

"Why didn't your people find you, Mycroft?" I asked bluntly, still maintaining my position, eyes fixated on the grass verges that bordered the motorway.

"I knew you'd ask." he replied. This question appeared to trouble him somewhat as he paused. I took the opportunity to drop in a sarcastic comment about his obvious statement.

"Of course I was going to ask. It doesn't take a Holmes to work that one out!"

"Sherlock please. I've had to do a complete change over of all of the people that work for me since you found me and I've been back. It was a small division of the people under my command that also worked of Moriarty. They were the ones who took me."

"Chloroform." I said, matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"I said, chloroform." I hate having to repeat myself. I think I could be forgiven for the hint of irritation in my voice at this point.

I looked at Mycroft who still looked completely bemused.

I sighed loudly. "Do I have to explain everything to you? They used chloroform to subdue you whilst they took you. I can smell it on our clothes and in the car. I'm surprised you missed that." I said blandly. I was getting more irritated by the second and we still had another thirty minutes left of this car ride.

"I'm sorry, dear brother, but not everyone is like you. I had just been kidnapped and thought I was going to die you know?" he spat. This only served to irk me more.

"Yes, I am aware. I was the one who found you. And let me remind you, my one and only friend in the world is fighting for his life in the car behind and has just come out of fourteen hours of surgery. It's not always about you, Mycroft."

That seemed to silence him for the rest of the journey. I couldn't care less about the atmosphere between us now. We were back to where we began. To him, it was clear that it was irrelevant that John had almost given his life for him; to me, however, it meant the world.

The manor was just how I remembered it. Intimidating, if you'd never seen it before, as it loomed ominously over you as you walked in and swallowed you. Still just as soul-less as I left it too, about twenty years ago.

Some men were pulling John to the front door as another opened it for us. I followed them in by John's side all the way down three large corridors and into a room where all of the appropriate equipment had been set up and three doctors were waiting to check up on John. At least Mycroft was thorough. 


	2. Chapter 2

Intelligence

Author's Note: Welcome to the second chapter, which is by far my favourite (you might see why a little further down the page). Anyway, please review, otherwise I don't know if I'm doing a good job or not, and I wouldn't liketo be disappointing my readers! Enjoy!

Love, Ruby xx

Within seconds of John being wheeled into the corner of the large room, the three medics swarmed around him and began busying themselves with wiring him to machines and running numerous tests on him. I remained in the doorway and let the men who'd wheeled John in out.

I felt a hand on my should and snapped around, knowing immediately who it was, and scowled at my brother.

"You know I didn't mean it like that Sherlock." he said. I might have detected a little remorse and regret in his voice, but I didn't care. It was him who'd said it, not me. I was in no mood to deal with his emotional manipulation at the moment anyway.

"Just don't, Mycroft. I don't need your emotional support, I never have. Just leave me alone." I may have wanted John at the manor, but it was only for the better medical care. I didn't want for anything but John's safety and survival at this moment in time.

Once the doctors had finished faffing around and irritating the hell out of me. I'm really getting fed up of repeating myself, of course I'm fine, it's John you need to focus your attention on you idiots!

The doctors all left within fifteen minutes, which was very considerate of them. Mycroft probably told them about me. I resumed the position that I had taken up earlier in the hospital, near the head of the bed, next to John. The rhythmic beeping of the machines reassured me that he was still alive.

"There's a bathroom across the hall, you should really take a shower you know. Your clothes are on the side in there. You don't smell too fresh." God his voice grates on me. Does he not everget the message? I probably did need a wash after the amount that I'd been through tonight, but at three in the morning, I really wasn't overly concerned.

"What have I told you Mycroft? Leave me alone. I don't-"

"Need your emotional support and all the rest of it. I know. I'm just-"

"Trying to help. Well don't. You've done as much as you can; and whilst I'm grateful that you have moved him to here and taken care of the medical issues, I don't need you constantly hovering around me like sone sort of lost puppy. I don't need it Mycroft!" I snapped, I was getting quite irritated by now.

"Just take a shower and get some sleep Sherlock. I don't particularly care for an argument right now so would you just take basic care of yourself? I'll see you at nine for breakfast." He turned on his heals and went, finally getting the message. Why did he care all of a sudden? He never did before when we were younger, so why take an interest in my adult life?

I took a shower and freshened up, deciding it would be beneficial for the majority if I did. I was no longer covered in dry blood which was a positive take on the situation, and I was clean.

"When will you let him wake up?" I asked the next doctor who came in. A small, stout fellow with bright orange hair.

"I'm not entirely sure, Mr Holmes. It could be anything from days to weeks; but we'll be monitoring him closely and let you know when he's ready." I was fairly satisfied with this answer as I was a little drowsy.

Running across London in an attempt to save your brother, being blown up and then shot at with your only friend being seriously injured and knocking on death's door really syphoned all of my energy.

I must have fallen asleep at some point as I woke up in a bed, not mine. So someone had to have moved me. I cursed myself for succumbing to the depths of sleep, I didn't need sleep. I needed John o be alive.

Mycroft was not my favourite person right now as I recalled our frank exchange of views last night. He must have moved me from John's side and to a room I didn't even know. I would be able to find my way back to John, but that was beside the point. He should not have moved me. He'd know how I felt if he actually had a friend as opposed to only collegues.

I decided I was going to get up, admittedly I felt better after a nap, but I'd had much rathered staying with John. I felt guilty enough for his injuries, and felt compelled to reside next to him throughout the whole of his healing process.

Where did this come from, this compulsion and guilt. It was irrational and concerning, Mycroft would pick up on it the moment I walks down the staircase to breakfast, I reek of guilt and emotional turmoil. I just hope he's still in a state of shock after last night. I'll admit that I am.

I stepped out of the room and took a moment to pinpoint my exact location within the manor. Three doors from a staircase to my right, faded blue carpet; I was in the west wing. Balcony above the hall with a large grand piano, five doors to my right, John would be in the room directly below me. To get to the main table, down the stairs, along the corridor to the left, immediate right, followed by the fith door on the left, then out the window, down the drainpipe and through the front door. That was the quickest way down. I was not walking all the way though the manor getting sypathetic looks and stared at since I hadn't been here in years. I also didn't really want to talk to anybody.

I'm a bit taller than I was last time I scaled the drainpipe down from the third floor, but it felt no different. The wind wipped through my coat, scalf and hair as I slid down. I jumped the last few metres, I needed to know if I was still as physically agile as I was aged fourteen; answer, yes, possibly more so.

I pushed the front door open, took off my scalf and coat and gave it too the doorman who gave me a very odd look. He's clearly never seen a man run through a mansion and scale a drainpipe before. People should do it more often, it's quite an adrenaline rush. Good for the heart. Maybe I should recommend it to Mycroft, although I'm not too sure how long the drainpipe would remain standing.

I walked into the first room to the left, the dining room. Awful place really. All the memories of food fights and cathartic brawls rushed back into my head and I felt a little giddy. Good thing I'm intelligent enough not to say anything, but it appears that somebody else lacks that particular intelligence.

"The drainpipe Sherlock. Why? And this whole thing is not your fault so stop thinking it is. You could not have prevented this in any way so stop sulking." He gets more annoying by the day.

"Piss off Mycroft. It's not as if it's your friend in a critical condition just across the hall now is it?" I retorted. This was going to be a long breakfast. And no, I did not eat; my stomach would have rejected anything I swallowed. After my rather hasty and well worded reply to Mycroft's variation of 'Hello dear brother, it's good to see you this morning. Oh and thanks to you and your friend for saving my life last night', the table was silent apart from people's thoughts. These people drive me crazy; they must be some of Mycroft's 'advisers' although I doubt one of them is. She keeps looking at him as if she's searching for some kind of reassurance. Ah! They're sleeping together.

"Stop it, Sherlock" He grunted from the other side of the oval table that sat in the middle of the grotesquely large room.

"It would make things a whole lot better if she'd stop looking at you and you'd all at least make a small effort to conceal your thoughts." I replied in with a nonchalance I did not feel. I'd had enough of this and just wanted to check up on John. 


	3. Chapter 3

Intelligence

Author's Note: I have a feeling we could be heading towards the end of this fic, but I don't know how close. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Love, Ruby xx

After a rather awkward breakfast I made my way to the library to pick up some books on different polymers and how to identify them without a microscope and one on supernovae. Why not? John had always said I should know a little more astronomy and I had enough time to learn now.

After sweeping through the manor I arrived once more at John's bedside. The doctors had done their morning check up and assured me everything was fine and that if things kept improving at this rate he might be awake tomorrow. This was certainly good news and I was elated at the possibility of being able to hear John's voice again. And to leave Mycroft.

I remained in the same position all day, that was, of course, until it all went wrong.

The heart monitor stopped and sent a scream through the air that summoned everyone to John's side. I was, again, forcefully shoved to one side by overexcited doctors who called for the defibrillator. This was something I could not add to my memories, the death of a valiant friend.

The following minutes passed excruciatingly slowly, with cries of voltages followed by "CLEAR" and a short shocking sound.

It was all I could do to stand in the corner of the room. No amount of good acting or deleting could have prevented the tears that fell from my eyes. This was the second time I had come close to losing my friend. My breathing was frantic and I collapsed on the floor due to hyperventilation and stress.

Mycroft was, of course, unimpressed as I got back up out of the bed that I had found myself in that same morning. The same morning when John had almost lost his life. I hoped it was only an almost, if it wasn't, it would be the death of me as well, I'd no doubt.

I ran down to the room where John was. He'd gone. This was impossible. My mind ran ferverishly in circles trying to work out where Mycroft may have taken him. He could not be gone.

I burst into his study. "Where have you taken him Mycroft? This isn't funny, you shouldn't play games with people's lives!" I said. I didn't even bother to contain my anger at him any more, I was passed trying to conceal anything now. I was under a tremendous amount of pressure and stressed beyond belief and the thought that John might be on the slab in a morgue really didn't help me feel any better. His did people cope with these feelings?

"He's in your old room, Sherlock. It is bigger and has more facilities, the doctors seemed better with him in there than in room ninety-six." he said as if it should have been the most obvious thing. I suppose it probably was, my brain just didn't seem to want to work. This is why I never work when emotions are involved. I could not form a reply, words just collapsed on my tongue so I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me.

What was happening to me? I was becoming a wreck within forty-eight hours and all because of one person. I couldn't get my head around it, I hate it when I don't understand, which isn't very often, but it does happen.

I walked slowly up to my old room. Along corridor five, sixth left and eighth door on the left. East wing. Room forty. We'd had to number the rooms and corridors when I was younger for when we had visitors so people could find their way around. The house was so pompously big and I detested every inch of it.

I pushed the door oped to my childhood bedroom, the carpet marred with chemical stains, the surfaces with burns from both chemicals and fire, the walls painted a magnolia, but covered with pencil scrawlings from calculations or ideas that I would have on the go. A circle in the centre of the room on the biscuit carpet was more worn than the rest; my pacing circle. Where I came up with most of my igneous ideas and plans. I walked slowly around the almost divot in the carpet, retracing the steps I had made when I was a child.

I stood facing my bookshelf at the right of the door and looked left at John in the bed. He was asleep still, but he looked peaceful and content. The last time I saw him his face was contorted in pain, and mine stained with tears.

I opened the draws beneath the bed where I kept my chemicals when I had left. I had to move them frequently as, if found, they were confiscated by anyone who could get their hands on them. Every scientist has his failures and successes. One of my failures, or successes, dependant on how you saw it, I saw it as success, was blowing up room fifty-six next to Mycroft's room in the middle of the night. He was positively petrified at the enormous rupture in his bedroom wall. I was completely satisfied that my homemade explosive worked and was sufficiently powerful. Damage to his room was irrelevant. It wasn't as if there wast another hundred odd rooms he could chose from and move into before the next night. Room fifty-six just had the optimum volume and light levels at that time of night for the explosive to be at it's optimum.

My chemicals were missing, typical. Father had, no doubt, found them after I'd left and disposed of them. I groaned and walked to the books. Hmmmm... A bit of physical chemistry would do nicely to satisfy my curiosity for the next few hours. 


	4. Chapter 4

Intelligence

Author's Note: Firstly, I have to apologise about the update. A levels are evil and so any of my stories will be updated on Saturdays only, unless you're bloody lucky! Anyway, I believe this to be the last chapter, so some overall reveiws would be lovely! If you don't want it to end here, say; but I think it's an appropriate ending! Enjoy!

Love, Ruby xx

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock! :(

I must have fallen asleep at some point as I awoke to find myself being prodded like a corpse on the floor next to John's bed. "Go away Mycroft, unless you've got anything to say that I really want to hear." I muttered as I looked up at my brother who was looming over me with a rather irritated expression.

"Just get up Sherlock. Can you not sleep in a bed like the rest of us?" he asked. Theory confirmed, he's annoyed because his girlfriend left early this morning without any favours.

"Why would I want to be like the rest of you?" I asked, "And I Apollo use for your lack of activity this morning and tell your girlfriend to have a lovely time in Manchester today." All my statement earned was a glare, that woman clearly got to him.

He turned to walk away befor uttering, "Good mooring to you too Sherlock. Your chemicals have been confiscated and were grown away three days after you left. I assume I'll see you at some point during the day." And with that, the annoying git was gone.

"Excuse me, you're Sherlock aren't you?" asked a small woman as I sat up on the floor, vaguely aware that I had a slamming headache coming on.

"Yes, why do you want to know?" I groaned. My head was really going to hurt in about five minutes. I briefly contemplated 'sharing' John's morphine drip.

"I'm Delilah. I'm John's main doctor now. He's got better so the others have left. We're going to start waking him up now, so if you'd kindly leave. I'm sorry you can't stay, but it's not always pleasant and I'd rather you weren't here. It would also increase the chances of him being well if you left as I focus better without an audience. I promise I'll call for you when all is well." She sounded patronising, but if it would help John, I would go; only next door to be precise... Or down the drainpipe again. I needed tort my violin.

I got up and left without saying anything. That headache had really hit now, it felt like someone had dropped a tonne of bricks on my head.

I walked up and down the corridor for what felt like hours. What had happened to me? I was a montage of feelings and emotion, as opposed to logic and facts. These emotions made me irrational, this I did not like. I scolded myself repeatedly for letting this cloud my judgement and razor sharp intuition. I now understood why people with feelings could not function at the same high level as me; that still does not mean I accept it.

My mind wandered to John again. My blogger, my doctor, my accomplice, my friend. I had never had a friend before, all of the reasons for which I'm sure are obvious, even to the lower level thinkers. John was a first for many things, and probably the last. Most likely the first and last person I'll ever fully trust. I'd entrust my life to John, but to no other person. This was definitely the unknown. Holmeses do not like the unknown; not one bit.

I stopped my rapid walk up and down the corridor and slumped down onto the floor with my back pressed tightly to the wall. I threw my head into my hands and rubbed my eyes feverishly with the heels of my palms. I was tired, and this, naturally, lead to an increase in irrationality, but this was no excuse. Tears began to stream down my face as I became overwhelmed by guilt, worry and shear terror for losing a companion. Emotional attachment really is a very good motivator for crime.

At last, the words I wanted to hear came bellowing down the hall. "Sherlock Holmes! You can see him now. He's awake, just in a slightly delicate state."

I'd never been so thrilled in my life; not even running through the streets of London after Moriarty could compare to the sensation I felt at this point.

I stepped tentatively towards the room, unsure if what I heard was the truth. As I said, I was tired and thus emotional, henceforth my judgement was not at its peak.

I walked through the doorway and a megawatt smile spread across my features as I saw my companion awake in the bed.

"Come 'ere you!" he said softly as he held out both of his arms in my direction, encouraging me forwards and into a tight embrace.

"John, I-"

"It's ok, I'm here. I'm really here." he comforted as the torrent of tears began again and I sobbed lightly into his shoulder, overcome with sheer elation that he was back. Back with me, where he belonged.

Intelligence and valiance, for better or for worse. 


End file.
